Turning Triple X
by illyrilex
Summary: Jill's thirtieth birthday turns into one of the most uncomfortable nights Chris has ever had. Updated with minor fixes, rating change, and shenanigans: Complete. Update 08/2013: Little things
1. The Pick Up

**Hey folks. Here's another product of chronic insomnia for you. Takes place in 2004; post Caucasus, pre-BSAA formation.**

**All characters belong to Capcom (but you knew this already)!**

**Onward!**

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><p>Chris Redfield wasn't used to being idle.<p>

It's not that he was impatient – not entirely, anyway – but over the years he had grown accustomed to constantly being on the move, some sort of life or death situation looming over his shoulder. He hadn't always been like this: back in his days with S.T.A.R.S., before the horrors he had seen that fateful night out in the Arklay Mountains, he had actually been rather easy-going. All business when it came to his job, of course, but still capable of unwinding after a hard day's (or night's) work. However, years of squaring off against things that would psychologically scar even the most twisted of horror film directors had left a lasting impression, to say the least.

Absently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Chris wondered how much longer he was going to have to sit and wait. He hadn't been parked long – maybe five minutes at the most – but being inactive in any capacity was damn near excruciating. Peering up at the small apartment building directly in front of him, he saw a light go out in a window on the topmost floor; within a few seconds his longtime friend and partner, Jill Valentine, appeared at the building's entrance clad in a retro-style dress with matching heels. Slung over her shoulder was a small messenger bag that clearly didn't go with the ensemble: Chris instinctively knew that somewhere between the keys, wallet, and lip balm sat lock picks, a thin hoodie, and a fully loaded Beretta 92F – for "emergencies."

Although his relationship with Jill was strictly platonic, Chris couldn't help but stare as she approached the car: In all the years they had known each other, he had never seen her dolled up for any circumstance whatsoever (though he _had_ heard about an interesting corset-top and miniskirt combo). Tonight, however, was a special occasion: it was Jill's 30th birthday, and she had made up her mind almost the second the two were officially cleared for some much-needed time off to celebrate the milestone.

"_After all we've seen and done, it's a miracle either of us have even made it this far,"_ she had told him while she mapped out her plans. _"Plus, it's a great reason to eat delicious cake..."_

Awhile back Jill had even tried to persuade Chris to celebrate his own 30th birthday "_retroactively_" with her: the end of his twenties had quietly slipped by while they were still overseas working to put an end to Umbrella. Predictably, he declined; he had been more than satisfied with a haphazard serenade and a flight home. Besides, he had a job to do tonight, and that job was to act as the designated driver.

"Hey, now," Chris grinned as Jill climbed into the passenger seat. He couldn't help but marvel at his colleague's apparent taste for pin-up couture.

Jill strapped on her seat belt, fully aware of her partner's unwavering gaze.

"You're freaking me out, Redfield."

"You're freaking _me_ out, Valentine."

"Seriously," Jill's voice cracked; she made a noise that was somewhere between a snort and a giggle. "Stop it."

"_You _stop it," Chris smiled playfully as he turned around and grabbed a small gift bag from the backseat. "Happy birthday."

"Oh, Chris, you really didn't have to…" Jill trailed off as she took the sack. She quickly looked at Chris before opening a small card that was taped to the handles. A slow smile spread across her face as she read to herself.

"Aww... Love you, too, partner." Still smiling, Jill reached into the bag and pulled out her gift: a plain, midnight blue baseball cap that – unbeknownst to her – had been hastily purchased that afternoon.

"Wow, thanks!" Jill removed the small tag and immediately put the hat on, adding yet another out-of-place element to her attire. "I shall wear it, and _love it_, and call it 'George!'"

"Well," Chris shook his head and started the car. "'George' looks good on you. Ready to go?"

"Let's do this!"

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><p><em>* This was initially meant to be a very wordy one-shot, but breaking it into chapters made it easier to proof and edit.<em>

_* The title of this comes from a card that I once picked up for an acquaintance who was turning 30. It said something along the lines of "You're not 30! You're Triple X!"_

_* Math is hard: Chris is probably closer to 31 (if not there already) at this point. All of the vital stat materials out there put him as a year older than Jill, but it could be, like, a year and some change for all we know._

_* An example of Jill's dress can be found at a little spot called pinupgirlclothing (just add a dot com to that, since this site is being all weird about url's now... *grumble grumble*); it's what's called a "Daisy" dress._

_* "I shall wear it, and love it, and call it George," is a reference to John Steinbeck's Of Mice And Men._

_* I thought it would be cute if the baseball cap we see as part of Jill's BSAA uniform came from Chris._

_* Sorry, ChrisxJill shippers – in my world the love these two share is of the non-romantic variety. (And, with that, I reckon I have officially lost you. Sad Panda.)_

_I hope you enjoyed this! Reviews and feedback are always welcome and appreciated! Cheers!_


	2. The Party

**_Thanks to all who read and extra to those who were kind enough to review! You're awesome!_**

**_Onward!_**

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><p>Most of Jill's friends and family either lived out-of-state or killed during the Raccoon City Outbreak back in 1998 so the turnout for her birthday dinner was small: Ex-S.T.A.R.S. members Barry Burton and Rebecca Chambers were more than happy to partake in any event that didn't involve hidden chambers in hidden basements that housed dangerous monstrosities, as was Chris' little sister, Claire. The typically scattered group had met up at a cozy dive bar that was known for good food, good music, and excellent beer. It was the perfect spot to forget about their never-ending work against bio-terrorism and live like normal people – for a little while, anyway. Unfortunately, Rebecca had left rather early: the life of a medical professional didn't allow for too much downtime. A little over an hour after her departure, Barry rose from his seat and picked up his jacket: the life of a family man didn't allow for too much partying.<p>

"Claire," he nodded toward the younger Redfield. "Always a pleasure." Claire gave a curt nod as she sipped her drink: She had never quite forgiven him for his treasonous actions toward her brother and his teammates during the Arklay incident even though he had redeemed himself quite some time ago.

"Jill," Barry made his way across the table and stooped to give her a quick hug. "I'll see you later. Happy birthday."

"Aww, Barryyyy," Jill took the older man's hand in hers, shaking it back and forth, "Thanks for coming! And for buying drunks! Drinks!"

Chris stood up to shake his old friend's hand. "Good seeing you again, man."

"You, too, Chris…" Barry leaned slightly forward; Chris took the cue and stepped closer.

"What's up?"

Barry quickly glanced back at Jill: Although it had been firmly established some years prior that the woman was able to handle her liquor, both men were exceedingly aware that she had consumed more alcohol over the course of the evening than either had seen her drink over the course of the last eight years. At this point, Jill's sobriety had to have been scientifically impossible.

"She's looking like she may have had one too many. You should take her home."

"Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing..."

Chris made to let go of Barry's hand; Barry, however, had different plans. He maintained his grip and leaned in a little closer.

"Take her home, Redfield," he said in a low and somewhat menacing tone, "but do not '_take her home._'"

It took a moment for Chris to register the meaning behind the comment, and when he did he thought that it must have been some kind of joke. It wasn't until he felt the pressure on his hand increase slightly that he realized his bearded comrade was dead serious.

"What the fuck, Barry? You _know_ that I wouldn't –! Besides, I thought you knew that she was –"

"Yeah, yeah; I shouldn't have said that – you're a good kid," the older of the two sighed. "Just don't let her do anything… …drastic."

Now it was Chris's turn to steal a quick glance at Jill: She was finishing the last of her cake while laughing about something with Claire.

"She's my _partner – _I'll take care of her."

Barry finally let go of Chris's hand and patted him on the shoulder. "Atta boy. See you later."

Chris let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding as he sat down – just in time to see Jill down another shot. He wondered how many of those things she had taken and started counting the small, empty glasses that littered the table. He made it to three before he caught Claire's eye and came to an abrupt halt.

"Hey, what was that about?" She asked.

"Oh," Chris nonchalantly waved his hand. "Manly chit-chat. Nothing to be concerned about."

Claire raised her eyebrows. "Riiiight. You suck at lying. You know that, don't you?"

Before Chris could offer any sort of rebuttal he noticed that Jill was leaning on the table, looking at him with a goofy smile on her face, steel-blue eyes slightly glossed over. It would have been hilarious – and it probably was to the casual observer (or Claire) – but somehow it managed to be slightly unnerving.

"Umm... what?"

"I _love_ this hat," Jill placed a hand on top of her head: She had never once removed the cap that had been playfully dubbed George.

Chris chuckled. "I'm glad you – how many of those have you had?"

Jill downed yet another shot that seemingly materialized out of nowhere. "Hmmmm… Two? Maybe four? They're _really_ good!" Her speech was a bit slurred.

"I think that was number six," Claire cut in. "_And_ that beer with dinner."

"SIX?!"

Chris wasn't sure if he should be impressed or horrified - that was _a lot_ of alcohol. Claire was about to say something else but was interrupted when Jill leaned so far toward Chris that she fell out of her chair, hitting the floor with a loud thud.

"OH, SHIT!" Chris immediately scrambled to help her up. "Are you alright?!"

Jill laughed as if she had just seen or done the funniest thing in the entire world. "I'm drunk! I'm so drunk right now! But I'm _awesome_!" She gave Chris thumbs up as he gently took her elbow and helped her back into her chair. She laughed so hard that she momentarily lost her breath and snorted.

"She's fine! Show's over, folks! It's all good," Claire called out to the various groups of people who were watching their table with a keen interest.

"Okay, no more drinks for you," Chris smiled weakly as Jill resumed staring at him with the same ridiculous grin she wore before her startling drop. There was a sudden flash: Claire had snapped a photo from across the table, earning a stern look from her older brother.

"What?" she said, "I'm documenting the night!"

Chris rolled his eyes. "Document my ass."

"Pffft. Mom already did! Haven't you ever looked in your baby book?"

Chris groaned. He had, in fact, flipped through the aforementioned scrapbook: Much to his chagrin it contained photographic evidence of a phase he went through shortly before his third birthday, wherein he had decided that wearing bottoms of any kind for more than five minutes was a detriment to his health.

Unable to think of an appropriate verbal response, he raised his middle finger – which Claire promptly photographed – before turning back to Jill.

"Why don't we get out of here? You've had enough for half of the bar."

"Not until you dance with me!"

"You know I have two left feet," Chris fidgeted a little as Jill tried to pull him out of his chair. Smiling, he turned to his sister. "Why don't _you_ dance with her, Claire-bear?"

Now it was Claire's turn to flip the bird: she hated when he called her that. Rising from her seat, she took one last sip of her daiquiri. "I'm game. Come on, Jilly-pants, let's show this big-eared bastard how it's done!"

"YES!" Jill enthusiastically took Claire's hands in hers. "Girl-on-girl action!"

"You have the same ears," Chris called as the two women moved toward the jukebox.

The scene that followed was one of the silliest things Chris had ever laid eyes on: He watched as his sister and his best friend danced rather clumsily, the latter somehow working up the coordination needed to maneuver without tripping on her heels – much. Some of their moves were a little on the suggestive side, which was a bit uncomfortable for him to watch, but he laughed in spite of himself. A good deal of the bar patrons were checking out the two women as they laughed and swayed with each another. Chris immediately felt his protective instincts kick in: He started counting the number of men who were probably thinking dirty thoughts about the pair and determined that he could kick all of their asses with ease should the need arise. Uppercuts, jabs and hooks... That big guy over there wouldn't stand a chance against a good body shot to the liver...

"Dude!"

Moments later Claire's voice snapped her brother out of his violent musings. "She is absolutely effing _blitzed_! Hell, I think she might have been coming on to me…!"

Chris choked on the water he was drinking, unable to think of how he could possibly respond to that. He was saved when Jill plopped down on his leg and rested her head on his shoulder.

Claire opened her mouth, closed it, and furrowed her brow. Frowning, she changed the subject.

"We're about leave, right?"

"Yeah," Chris gently nudged Jill. "You wanna go home now? Get some rest?"

"You're comfy. Kind of like a big pillow," she slurred. "With feet."

"That's… good to know. You two go out to the car – I'll be out after I pay the bill."

# # #

The walk back to the parking lot was short and surprisingly quiet. Jill's balance had abandoned her, yet she insisted on walking without help. Chris watched her carefully, ready to catch her at a moment's notice, while Claire trailed slightly behind the two, her motorcycle helmet under one arm and Jill's bag hanging on her shoulder: Letting an inebriated person handle anything that contained a loaded firearm was never a good idea, even if the safety was on.

Chris unlocked his car and Claire handed him Jill's bag. For the second time that evening her would-be dialogue was interrupted by Jill, who let out a loud shriek.

"What's wrong?!" Chris quickly withdrew the Beretta from the bag and pointed it in all directions.

"Zombies?!" Claire dropped her helmet and pulled a knife from her jacket pocket.

"_That__!_" Jill pointed to something that was just outside of Chris's field of vision. "_That_ is the most _beautiful_ car I have _ever_ seen in my life! Claire-bear, get your camera!"

"Wait, Jill," Chris tried to grab her arm, but she had already made her way passed him to enthusiastically eyeball a 1969 Chevelle SS that sported a freshly waxed purple paint job. Chris admired the vehicle from afar as he placed the handgun back into the bag. It _was_ a nice car, though he wasn't particularly fond of the color.

"Come on!" Jill called. She had reached the car and stooped to look into one of the windows before straightening up. "It's so… _majestic_! I _have_ to have my picture taken with it!"

"I… have to agree," Claire had replaced her knife with her digital camera.

"What? There's no way –"

Chris began to protest but it was in vain: his drunken colleague placed a foot on the front bumper and dramatically threw an arm over her head. Claire laughed and immediately took a photo. Jill shakily took her foot down; she moved over to the side of the car and slowly bent herself over it. The whole thing had a 1950's pin-up calendar feel to it.

"What do you think, Chris?! Would you hit it?!" She laughed and suggestively wiggled her hips.

Chris buried his face in his palm. "What I think is that alcohol makes you creepy. Can we knock this shit off and go?" The possibility of the car's owner showing up at any second and catching some strange, intoxicated woman using his or her investment for an impromptu photo shoot while her sober buddy watched was extremely unappealing to the straight-laced operative.

"Gimme 'fierce', Jill," Claire called out. She turned to her brother and hissed, "How on earth are you _not_ interested in her? And what the hell with the 'creepy' line? She's gorgeous!"

Chris couldn't deny that Jill managed to look quite lovely despite the stupid grin plastered on her face, but any physical attraction he may have felt toward her had vanished years ago: they were partners and friends, and that was all. He wouldn't want it any other way, and neither would she – even if certain preferences didn't exist. However, Claire, who had a tendency to be oblivious at times, thought that they were perfect for each other. To an extent, they were. Just not in the way she envisioned.

"As far as I'm concerned, she's a gorgeous _dude_," Chris replied matter of factly. "Furthermore, haven't we already had this conversation?"

"Good one, mama," Claire called as she snapped another picture. Rolling her eyes, she said, "Yeah, yeah. You're '_partners_' or whatever - but, still! I just don't get it..!"

"JILL!"

Chris's horrified exclamation effectively ended the dialogue with his little sister: Their friend was unsteadily climbing onto the hood of the car. "What the _hell_ are you doing?!"

"You should get down," a wide-eyed Claire added. "Like, right now!"

"You guys are _laaaame_!"

The instant Jill said that she slipped, and her heel knocked the front bumper – hard. An extremely loud alarm sounded as she slid off the car and landed bottom-first on the pavement. Chris ran to pick her up as quickly as he could. She held onto him, laughing hysterically as he made a mad dash for his jeep.

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><p><em>* First off, yes, the Jill in my head-canon is a lesbian. Initially it was only going to be something that was implied, but whatever.<em>

_* The dive bar is inspired by the Texas Chili Parlor. Blame Quintin Tarantino's Death Proof – I was watching that when I began writing this._

_* On the subject of dive bars, please note that not all dives are shit-holes; they are merely a type of bar or pub._

_* I imagined Jill's shots to be these cute little drinks called a "Dirty Girl Scout." They consist of one shot Bailey's Irish Cream, one to two shots vodka, one shot White Creme de Menthe, one shot Kahlua. For all you non-drinkers, vodka will fuck. you. up._

_* Alcohol count: one beer, six shots (see alcohol content above), and a sip of Claire's girly drink._

_* "Big eared bastard" - Chris's ears are pretty fucking big. (Check out any of his character art or in-game models...) Claire's are, too. Go look at the Code Veronica Cover, you'll see._

_* As usual, don't be afraid to let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!_


	3. The Proposition

**Once again, if you've managed to stick with this (especially with my take on the whole Chris/Jill dynamic) you're awesome and I truly would like to hear from you. Please forgive any typos that may have slipped through the QA cracks...**

**Some minor adult situations up in here, so wheee~!**

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><p>The drive back to Jill's apartment was full of some extremely erratic conversations: The inebriated woman had blabbered on about topics ranging from firearms, to the absurdity of toe-socks, to an inexplicable craving for French toast. As Chris pulled into the familiar complex he hoped to hell that there would be a parking space close to Jill's building because he didn't want any of the other residents to see this woman so wasted. Luck was on his side: the space he parked in earlier was still available.<p>

Chris promptly helped his passenger out of the car; she silently slung an arm over his shoulder before grinning at him for what must have been the thousandth time that night. He couldn't help returning the smile as he carefully escorted her up the stairs. When they reached the door Chris decided against rifling through the odd messenger bag and clumsily withdrew his own set of keys from his pocket: Jill had given him her spare key shortly after she moved in, reasoning that it could come in handy during a hypothetical apocalypse.

As soon as the door opened Jill unsteadily strolled in ahead of Chris. "I can waaaaaalk," she declared in a tired-sounding sing-song voice. She flipped a light switch and plopped on the sofa, where she immediately began fumbling with the trivial task of taking off her shoes. She removed the first one with relative ease but was having trouble with the other. "Do you need anything?" Chris asked with a snicker. There was something highly amusing about watching his typically skillful associate wage a war with her own foot.

"I could use some help with this stupid… _Damn_… At least it's pretty. It's – a – pretty – shoe – right?" Each word was punctuated by a tug of the thin strap.

"Sure?"

Chris was uncertain of what, exactly, constituted pretty footwear. He sat down next to Jill and effortlessly unbuttoned the strap: Within seconds the heeled Mary Jane was enthusiastically kicked off: It went flying across the room and narrowly missed smashing into the TV.

"Whoops!" Jill giggled, completely indifferent to the near-destruction of her rather nice television set. She finally removed her cap and ran a hand through her hair before resting her head on Chris' shoulder. He shifted his position and casually draped his arm around her as he checked a nearby clock.

"It's getting late, Jill. Why don't we get you something for that coming hangover and get you to bed?"

"I'm not tired," came a somewhat garbled reply. Jill's statement directly conflicted with the fact that she was essentially using her friend as a big pillow (with feet).

"Well," Chris said as he reached past Jill to grab the television remote. "Why don't we close out your fun-filled night with some TV? Nothing says '_Yay_, _I'm plastered and need to sleep it off!_' like some late-night reruns." He really hoped that some mind-numbing program would help Jill sober up a little, if not completely put her to sleep. Even though she was a happy, clumsy, and perfectly harmless drunk, Chris couldn't help feeling a little perturbed: he wanted his companion to regain her faculties sooner rather than later.

"Hey."

Jill sat up and turned to look at Chris. Despite the presence of the goofy smile her voice was serious. "You know that I love you, right? And that I'm not just saying that because I'm drunk?"

"Yeah Jill; I love you back."  
>"Good," came her reply. "So let's fuck!"<br>"Huh – buh – WHAT!?"

And then it happened so fast that Chris was unable to form a coherent thought to save his life: Jill pushed him over and climbed on top of him; there was an unsettlingly playful glint in her eyes. She lowered her face toward his and she was so close now that he could make out the faint scarring on her forehead from that mission a few years back and thank God she wasn't going in for a kiss because that would be incredibly strange given what happened that one time, and she was leaning toward his ear to say something and _holy shit_ she suddenly had a vice-grip on _that_.

"Come on," Jill purred. "You can show me what I've been missing out on…! You '_up_' for that, partner?"

Chris, who wasn't really used to being nervous, felt like he was surely on the verge of a legitimate panic attack. He was barely able to process what was happening: it was weird, and wrong, and _weird!_ This was _Jill, _goddammit! Her words and actions had gone beyond intoxication – and way the hell beyond the "drastic" that Barry was concerned about: This bordered on outright insanity.

"What the fuck are you doing, Valentine?!" Chris shouted as he promptly removed Jill's hand from his crotch and scrambled to sit up under her weight. He needed to create as much distance between them as possible – and fast. Seeing no other option, he placed his hands on her hips (she let out a delighted whoop) and threw her off him. He immediately jumped to his feet and grabbed a nearby pillow. He held it out as if it were a shield.

"This… is WILDLY UNPROFESSIONAL!" There was an uncharacteristically manic edge to his voice. "And last time I checked, you were –"

Jill stood up and advanced toward her prey. She momentarily wrinkled her nose. "Well, _yeaaaaah_, but I'm so drunk that I'm willing to try – but only for you, and only if we turn the lights off. Think of it as a challenge! It'll be like some ' _Chasing Amy'_ shit, but with waaaaaaay less drama!"

Chris felt a little silly as he took a step back and thrust the pillow outward.

"I'm not having sex with you, Valentine."  
>"When's the last time you got laid?"<br>"That's not important!"  
>"When's the last time <em>I<em> got laid?"  
>"I don't know!"<br>"EXACTLY!"

Jill continued to move toward Chris, undeterred by the cushy barrier between them as he continued to move backwards. "You're always so tense, and I'm drunk _and_ horny enough to give this sort of thing another try – _especially _since the shower massager has been on the fritz – and do you know how much this would up your street-credibility? To be able to say that you boned – "

"Street-cred?! I've killed ZOMBIES, Jill! That's more than enough street-cred for ten lifetimes! And, damn it, I will buy you a new shower massager!" Chris continued move backward; he held the pillow at arm's length, hardly able to believe he was in this situation in the first place. "I mean it, Valentine – stand down, or I will choke you out!"

Jill stopped and quirked an eyebrow. "It's my nose, isn't it?"

Chris was momentarily stunned by the unexpected tangent. He shook his head, completely bewildered by what was – or wasn't – going on in his colleague's brain at the moment. "This has nothing to do with your nose and everything to do with the fact that you're…you're… _you_!"

Jill took a small step backward; her expression looked pained and she raised a hand to her face. For the first time in years Chris didn't know what she was going to say or do and it freaked him the hell out. If the last few minutes had been any indication, there was absolutely nothing that was beyond the realm of possibility. He hesitantly dropped the pillow, preparing himself for some sort of nonsensical meltdown or the execution of a choke-hold. What he did not prepare for came when his stupefied partner suddenly lurched forward and threw up all over him.

"Um… Okay. That's… wow."

Chris grimaced and looked down at his soiled clothes. He turned his attention back to Jill, who looked absolutely horrified as she covered her mouth and stifled burp, which was followed by a loud gagging noise. Ignoring the spit-up that covered most of his attire, Chris rushed his friend to the bathroom, where he spent the next ten minutes holding her hair away from her face as she vomited, and consoled her as she wailed numerous obscenities and apologies between each bout of heaving. When he was absolutely certain Jill was finished emptying the contents of her stomach he gingerly guided her to her bed. She mumbled a barely audible "thank you," and immediately fell unconscious.

"God. _Damn_...!"

Chris sighed and hurried to the small laundry room. He hadn't planned to spend the night, but now that his clothes were un-wearable he didn't see much of a choice. He was also very worried about Jill: He had made sure to prop her up on the pillows when he put her to bed, but there was still the risk of her choking on any vomit that could come up as she slept. He pushed the thought from his mind and carefully undressed, extremely grateful that the gross mix covering him hadn't seeped through to his undergarments. He threw his clothes into the washing machine and made his way back to the living room: He picked up the discarded pillow and set it on the sofa before dropping into it face-first. Replaying the more uncomfortable bits of the evening in his mind, he wondered what he would possibly tell Jill when she woke up with little to no recollection of the last few hours. He would fill in any blanks, of course, but there was a high likelihood that one or both of them would die from discomposure.

Chris groaned.

The next morning was going to suck.

* * *

><p><em>Aaaaand, done! Yay~<em>

_Here are some notes because I'm such a wordy bastard:_

_* Drunk people do crazy, irrational shit, and, once again, I drew from a few real-life situations that I have been privy to. Also, Texts From Last Night. Some amazing things come from there._

_* I suppose Chris is hella OOC this chapter, but it kind of makes sense when you think about it: Jill is probably the only person on the planet that could elicit such an extreme sort of reaction from him. I mean, I think. Maybe Claire could, too. Idk._

_* The craving for French toast is a reference to Leslie Mann's drunk driving scene in The 40-Year Old Virgin ("Let's get some fuckin' French toast!")_

_* "Huh – buh – WHAT" is a nod to Joss Whedon's run on Astonishing X-Men (back in 2004)._

_* Chasing Amy is a Kevin Smith movie that came out back in 1997; it's about a romantic relationship between a heterosexual man and a lesbian._

_* I sincerely hope that I don't have to explain the shower massager._

_* The line about Jill's nose refers to the fact that some people out there think it's weird or big or whatever (I actually saw an entire forum post dedicated to the subject). I couldn't resist throwing it in there. For the record, I think her "potato nose", as somebody had called it, is rad._

_Well, hopefully that didn't fall apart too much in the end there. As always, thank you for reading and/or reviewing. Cheers~!_


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